I wonder——” He turned slowly round. I would speak with you. He hung vaguely for a moment as she passed. The softly glittering summer stars! She saw them shining over mountains of snow, over valleys of haze and warm darkness. She felt him as something solid and strong and trustworthy beyond measure. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. “Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. Her body rose up to meet his in a cat-like stretch and she smiled.
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